Fatal Cure

25

Nikki awoke in the middle of the night with another nightmare and ended up sleeping in the master bedroom. David and Angela both slept restlessly. Even Rusty seemed unable to sleep soundly, growling and barking on several occasions during the night. Each time David leaped out of bed and grabbed the shotgun. But each time it proved to be a false alarm.

The only bright spot the next morning was Nikki's health. Her lungs were completely clear. Nevertheless, the Wilsons didn't even consider sending her to school.

They tried phoning Calhoun again but got the answering machine with the same message. They discussed calling the police about the investigator but couldn't make up their minds. They admitted they didn't know Calhoun that well, that his behavior was eccentric, and that they were probably jumping to conclusions. They were also reluctant to call the local police considering the experiences they'd had with them, particularly the previous night.

"The one thing I do know," Angela said, "I don't want to spend another night in this house. Maybe we should pack everything up and leave this town to its own devices and secrets."

"If we're thinking of doing that, then I'd better call Sherwood," David said.

"Do it," Angela said. "I'm serious about not wanting to spend another night here."

David phoned the bank to make an appointment to see the president. The first opening available was that afternoon at three o'clock. Although David would have preferred an earlier time, he took what he could get.

"We really should speak to a lawyer," Angela said.

"You're right," David said. "Let's call Joe Cox."

Joe was a good friend of theirs. He was also one of the shrewdest lawyers in Boston. When Angela called his office, she was told that Joe was unavailable; he was in court and would be all day. Angela left a message that she'd call back.

"Where should we spend the night?" Angela asked, hanging up the phone.

"Our closest friends in town are the Yansens," David said. "And that's not saying much. I haven't socialized with Kevin since that ridiculous tennis game, and I don't want to call him now." David sighed. "I suppose I could call my parents."

"I was afraid to suggest it," Angela said.

David made the call to Amherst, New Hampshire, and asked his mother if they could come for a few days. He explained that they were having some difficulties with the house. David's mother was delighted. There'd be no problem at all. She said she was looking forward to their arrival.

Angela tried to call Calhoun again with no luck. She then suggested they drive to his place in Rutland; it wasn't that far away. David agreed, so all three Wilsons climbed into the Volvo and made the trip.

"There it is," Angela said as they approached Calhoun's home.

David pulled into the parking area in front of the car port. They were immediately disappointed. They'd hoped to be reassured, but they weren't. It was obvious no one was home. There was two days' worth of newspapers piled on the front stoop.

On their way back to Bartlet they discussed the investigator and found themselves even more indecisive. Angela mentioned that after she'd hired him he'd not contacted her for days. Finally they decided they'd wait one more day. If they couldn't reach him in twenty-four hours they would go to the police.

When they got home, Angela began packing for a stay at David's parents'. Nikki helped. While they were busy with that, David got out the telephone book and looked up the addresses of the five tattooed hospital workers. Once he had them written down, he went upstairs and told Angela that he wanted to cruise by their homes just to check out their living situations.

"I don't want you going anywhere," Angela said sternly.

"Why not?" David asked. He was surprised at her response.

"For one thing, I don't want to be here by myself," she said. "Second, we now understand that this affair is dangerous. I don't want you snooping around the house of a potential killer."

"Okay," David said soothingly. "Your first reason is quite sufficient. You didn't have to give me two. I didn't think you'd be nervous to be left alone during this time of the morning. And as far as it being dangerous, these people would probably be at work now."

"Probably isn't good enough," Angela said. "Why don't you give us a hand packing the car?"

It was almost noon before they were ready. After they made sure all the doors to the house were locked, they climbed into the Volvo. Rusty hopped in beside Nikki.

David's mother, Jeannie Wilson, welcomed them warmly, and made them feel instantly at home. David's father, Albert, was off for a day's fishing trip and wouldn't be back until that evening.

After carrying everything into the house, Angela collapsed on the quilted bed in the guest room. "I'm exhausted," she said. "I could fall asleep this second."

"Why don't you?" David said. "There's no need for both of us to go back to talk with Sherwood."

"You wouldn't mind?" Angela asked.

"Not in the least," David said. He pulled the edge of the quilt down and encouraged Angela to slide under it. As he closed the door he heard her advise him to drive carefully, but her voice was already thick with sleep.

David told his mother and Nikki that Angela was napping. He suggested that Nikki do the same, but she was already involved in making cookies with her grandmother. Explaining that he had an appointment in Bartlet, David went out to the car.

David arrived back in town with three-quarters of an hour to spare. He stopped alongside the road to pull out the list of tattooed hospital employees and their addresses. The closest one was Clyde Devonshire's. Feeling a bit guilty, David put the car in gear and headed for Clyde's. He rationalized his decision by telling himself that Angela's fears were unwarranted. Besides, he wasn't going to do anything; he just wanted to take a look.

David was surprised to find a convenience store at the address listed for Devonshire. He parked in front of the building, got out, and went into the store. While paying for a carton of orange juice he asked one of the two clerks if he knew Clyde Devonshire.

"Sure do," the man said. "He lives upstairs."

"Do you know him well?" David asked.

"So-so," the man said. "He comes in here a lot."

"I was told he had a tattoo," David said.

The man laughed. "Clyde's got a bunch of tattoos," he said.

"Where are they?" David asked, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"He has tattooed ropes around both wrists," the second clerk said. "It's like he was all tied up."

The first clerk laughed again, only harder.

David smiled. He didn't get the humor, but he wanted to be polite. At least he'd found out Clyde had tattoos where they could be damaged in a struggle.

"He's also got a tattoo on his upper arm," the first clerk said. "And more on his chest."

David thanked the clerks and left the store. He walked around the side of the building and spotted the door to the stairs. For a brief instant he thought about trying the door, but then he decided against it. He owed Angela that much.

Returning to his car, David climbed in behind the wheel and checked the time. He still had twenty minutes before his meeting with Sherwood: time for one more address. The next closest was Van Slyke's.

In just a few minutes David turned onto Van Slyke's lane. He slowed down to check the numbers on the mailboxes, looking for Van Slyke's. Suddenly, David jammed on the brakes. He'd come abreast of a green truck that looked a lot like Calhoun's.

Backing up, David parked the Volvo directly behind the truck. It had a sticker on the back bumper that read: "This Vehicle Climbed Mount Washington." It had to be Calhoun's.

David got out of his car and peered into the truck's cab. A moldy cup of coffee was sitting on the open glove compartment door. The ashtray was overflowing with cigar butts. David recognized the upholstery and the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. The truck was definitely Calhoun's.

David straightened up and looked across the street. There was no mailbox in front of the house, but from where he was standing, he could see the address painted on the riser of the porch stairs. It was 66 Apple Tree Lane, Van Slyke's address.

David crossed the street for a closer look. The house was badly in need of paint and repair. It was even hard to be sure what color it had originally been. It looked gray but there was a greenish cast to it suggesting it had once been pale olive.

There were no signs of life. It hardly looked like the house was lived in except for the indentation of tire tracks in the gravel of the driveway.

David hiked back to the garage and peered inside. It was empty.

David then returned to the front of the house. After checking to see that no one was observing him from the street, he tried the door. It was unlocked and it opened with a simple turn of the knob. He pushed it open slowly; the rusty hinges groaned.

Ready to flee at the slightest provocation, David peered inside. What furniture he could see was covered with dust and cobwebs. Taking a deep breath, David called out to determine if anybody was home.

If there was, no one answered. He strained to hear, but the house was silent.

Fighting an urge to flee, David forced himself to step over the threshold. The silence of the house enveloped him like a cloak. His heart was racing. He didn't want to be there, but he had to find out about Calhoun.

David called out again, but again no one answered. He was about to call out a third time when the door behind him slammed shut. David nearly passed out from fright. Experiencing an irrational fear that the door had somehow locked, he frantically re-opened it. He propped it open with a dusty umbrella stand. He did not want to feel enclosed in the building.

After composing himself as best he could, David made a tour of the first floor. He moved quickly from one dirty room to the next until he got to the kitchen. There he stopped. On the table was an ashtray. In it was the butt of an Antonio y Cleopatra cigar. Just beyond the table was an open door leading down to the cellar.

David approached the doorway and looked down into utter darkness. Beside the doorway was a light switch. David tried it. An anemic glow filtered up the stairs.

Taking a deep breath, David started down. He stopped midway and let his eyes sweep around the cluttered basement. It was filled with old furniture, boxes, a steamer trunk, and a hodgepodge of tools and junk. David noticed that the floor was dirt just as it was in his house, although near the furnace there was a slab of concrete.

David continued down the stairs, then went over to the concrete. Bending down, he examined it closely. The slab was still dark with dampness. He put his hand on it to be sure. David shuddered. He straightened up and ran for the stairs. As far as he was concerned, he'd seen enough to go to the police. Only he wasn't going to bother with the local police. He planned to call the state police directly. Reaching the top of the stairs, David stopped in his tracks. He heard the sound of car tires in the gravel of the driveway. A car had pulled in beside the house.

For a second David froze, not knowing what to do. He had little time to decide; the next thing he knew, he heard the car door open, then slam shut, then footsteps in the gravel.

David panicked. He pulled the door to the cellar shut and quickly descended the stairs. He was confident there'd be another way out of the basement, some sort of back stairs leading directly out.

At the rear of the basement were several doors. David lost no time weaving his way to them. The first one had an open hasp. As quietly as possible, he pulled it open. Beyond was a root cellar illuminated by a single low-watt bulb.

Hearing footsteps above, David quickly went to the second door. He gave the knob a tug, but the door wouldn't budge. He exerted more strength. At last, it creaked open. It moved stiffly, as if it hadn't been opened for years.

Beyond the door was what David had been looking for: a flight of concrete steps leading up to angled hatch-like doors. David closed the door to the basement behind him. He was now in darkness save for a sliver of light coming from between the two nearly horizontal doors above him.

David scrambled up the stairs and crouched just beneath the doors. He stopped to listen. He heard nothing. He put his hands on the doors and pushed. He was able to raise the doors half an inch, but no more; they were padlocked from outside.

Letting the doors down quietly, David tried to keep himself calm. His pulse was hammering in his temples. He knew he was trapped. His only hope was that he'd go undiscovered. But the next thing he heard was the door to the cellar crashing open followed by heavy footfalls on the cellar steps.

David squatted in the darkness and held his breath.

The footfalls drew nearer, then the door to his hideaway was yanked open. David found himself staring into the frenzied face of Werner Van Slyke.

Van Slyke appeared to be in a worse panic than David. He looked and acted as if he'd just taken an overwhelming dose of speed. His eyelids were drawn back, causing his unblinking eyes to bulge from their sockets. His pupils were so dilated he seemed to have no irises. Drops of perspiration were beaded on his forehead. His whole body was trembling, particularly his arms. In his right hand he clutched a pistol which he pointed at David's face.

For a few moments neither of them moved. David frantically tried to think of a plausible reason for his presence, but he couldn't think of a thing. All he could think about was the dancing barrel of the gun pointed at him. With Van Slyke's trembling growing worse by the minute, David was afraid the gun might go off accidentally.

David realized that Van Slyke was in the grip of an acute anxiety attack, probably triggered by his discovery of David hiding in his home. Remembering the man's psychiatric history, David thought there was a good chance Van Slyke was psychotic that very moment.

David thought about mentioning Calhoun's truck as a way of explaining his presence, but he quickly decided against it. Who knew what had transpired between Van Slyke and the private investigator? Mention of Calhoun might only exacerbate Van Slyke's psychotic state.

David decided that the best thing for him to do was to try to befriend the man, to acknowledge that he had problems, to admit that he was under stress, to tell him that David understood that he was suffering, and to tell him that David was a doctor and wanted to help him.

Unfortunately, Van Slyke gave David little chance to act on his plan. Without a word, Van Slyke reached out, grabbed David by his jacket, and rudely yanked him from the stairwell into the cellar itself.

Overwhelmed by Van Slyke's strength, David sprawled headfirst onto the dirt floor, crashing into a stack of cardboard boxes.

"Get up!" Van Slyke screamed. His voice echoed in the cellar.

David warily got to his feet.

Van Slyke was shaking so hard he was practically convulsing.

"Get into the root cellar," he yelled.

"Calm down," David said, speaking for the first time. Trying to sound like a therapist, he told Van Slyke that he understood he was upset.

Van Slyke responded by indiscriminately firing the gun. Bullets whizzed by David's head and ricocheted around the basement until they embedded themselves in an overhead floor joist, the stairs, or one of the wooden doors.

David leaped into the root cellar and cowered against the far wall, terrified of what Van Slyke might do next. Now he was convinced that Van Slyke was acutely psychotic.

Van Slyke shut the heavy wooden door with such force, plaster rained down on top of David's head. David didn't move. He could hear Van Slyke moving around in the cellar. Then he heard the sound of the hasp of the root cellar door being closed over its staple and a padlock being applied. David heard the click as the lock was closed.

After a few minutes of silence, David stood up. He looked around his cell. The only light source was a single bare bulb hanging by a cord from the ceiling. The room was bounded by large granite foundation blocks. On one wall were bins filled with fruit that appeared mummified. On the other wall shelves lined with jars of preserves reached to the ceiling.

David moved to the door and put his ear to it. He heard nothing. Looking more closely at the door he saw fresh scratch marks across it. It was as if someone had been trying desperately to claw his way out.

David knew it was futile but he had to try: he leaned his shoulder against the door and pushed it. It didn't budge. Failing in that, David started to make a complete tour of the cell when the light went out, plunging him into absolute darkness.

Sherwood buzzed his secretary and asked what time the appointment was scheduled with David Wilson.

"Three o'clock," Sharon said.

"What time is it now?" he asked. He was looking at the pocket watch he'd fished out of his vest.

"It's three-fifteen," she said.

"That's what I thought. No sign of him?"

"No, sir."

"If he shows up, tell him he'll have to reschedule," Sherwood said. "And bring in the agenda for tonight's hospital executive board meeting."

Sherwood took his finger off the intercom button. It irritated him that David Wilson would be late for a meeting that he had called to request. To Sherwood it was a deliberate snub, since punctuality was a cardinal virtue in his value system.

Sherwood lifted his phone and dialed Harold Traynor. Before he put in time on the executive meeting material, Sherwood wanted to be sure that the meeting hadn't been canceled. One had been back in 1981 and Sherwood still hadn't gotten over it.

"Six P.M.," Traynor said. "On schedule. Want to walk up together? It's a nice evening, and we won't be having too many more of these until next summer."

"I'll meet you right outside the bank," Sherwood said. "Sounds like you're in a good mood."

"It's been a good day," Traynor said. "I've just heard this afternoon from my nemesis, Jeb Wiggins. He's caved in. He'll back the parking garage after all. We should have the approval of the Selectmen by the end of the month."

Sherwood smiled. This was good news indeed. "Should I put together the bond issue?" he asked.

"Absolutely," Traynor said. "We've got to move on this thing. I have a call in to the contractor right now to see if there's any chance of pouring concrete before winter sets in."

Sharon came into Sherwood's office and handed him the agenda for the meeting.

"There's more good news," Traynor said. "Beaton called me this morning to tell me the hospital balance sheet looks a lot better than we thought it would. October wasn't nearly as bad as predicted."

"Nothing but good news this month," Sherwood said.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Traynor said. "Beaton also called me a little while ago to tell me that Van Slyke never showed up."

"He didn't phone?" Sherwood questioned.

"No," Traynor said. "Of course, he doesn't have a phone so that's not too surprising. I suppose I'll have to ride over there after the executive meeting. Trouble is, I hate to go in that house. It depresses me."

Just as unexpectedly as the overhead light had gone out, it went on again. In the distance David could hear Van Slyke's footfalls coming back down the cellar stairs accompanied by the intermittent clank of metal hitting metal. After that, David heard the clatter of things being dropped onto the dirt floor.

After another trip up and down David heard Van Slyke drop something particularly heavy. After a third trip there was the same dull thud that David could feel as much as hear. It sounded almost like a body hitting the hard-packed dirt, and David felt himself shudder.

Taking advantage of the light, David explored the root cellar for another way out, but as he suspected, there was none.

Suddenly David heard the lock on the root cellar door open and the hasp pull away from the staple. He braced himself as the door was yanked open.

David sucked in a breath of air at the sight of Van Slyke. He appeared even more agitated than he had earlier. His dark, unruly hair was no longer lying flat against his skull; it now stood straight out from his head as if he'd been jolted with a bolt of electricity. His pupils were still maximally dilated, and his face was now covered with perspiration. He'd removed his green work shirt and was now clad in a dirty tee shirt which he hadn't tucked into his trousers.

David immediately noticed how powerfully built Van Slyke was, and he quickly ruled out the possibility of trying to overpower the man. David also noticed that Van Slyke had a tattoo of an American flag held by a bald eagle on his right forearm. A thin scar about five inches long marred the design. David realized then that Van Slyke was probably Hodges' murderer.

"Out!" Van Slyke yelled along with a string of expletives. He waved his gun recklessly, sending a chill down David's spine. David was terrified Van Slyke would again start randomly firing.

David complied with Van Slyke's command and quickly stepped out of the root cellar. He edged sideways, keeping Van Slyke in his line of vision at all times. Van Slyke angrily motioned for him to continue on toward the furnace.

"Stop," Van Slyke commanded after David had moved some twenty feet. He pointed down toward the ground.

David looked down. Next to his feet were a pick and shovel. Nearby was the new slab of concrete.

"I want you to dig," Van Slyke yelled. "Right where you are standing."

Afraid of hesitating for a second, David bent down and lifted the pick. David considered using it as a weapon, but as if reading his mind, Van Slyke stepped back out of reach. He kept the gun raised, and although it was shaking, it was still pointing in David's direction. David didn't dare risk charging toward him.

David noticed bags of cement and sand on the floor and guessed it had been the noise of those bags hitting the floor that he had heard from the root cellar.

David swung the pick. To his surprise it dug a mere two inches into the densely packed earthen floor. David swung the pick several more times but only succeeded in loosening a small amount of dirt. He dropped the pick and picked up the shovel to move the dirt aside. There was no doubt in his mind what Van Slyke had in mind for him. He was having him dig his own grave. He wondered if Calhoun had been put through the same ordeal.

David knew his only hope was to get Van Slyke talking. "How much should I dig?" he asked as he traded the shovel for the pick.

"I want a big hole," Van Slyke said. "Like the hole of a doughnut. I want the whole thing. I want my mother to give me the whole doughnut."

David swallowed. Psychiatry hadn't been his forte in medical school, yet even he recognized that what he was hearing was called clanging or "loosening of associations," a symptom of acute schizophrenia.

"Did your mother give you a lot of doughnuts?" David asked. He was at a loss for words, but he desperately wanted to keep Van Slyke talking.

Van Slyke looked at David as if he were surprised he was there. "My mother committed suicide," he said. "She killed herself." Van Slyke then shocked David by laughing wildly.

David mentally ticked off another schizophrenic symptom. He could remember that this symptom was euphemistically called "inappropriate affect." David recalled another major component of Van Slyke's illness: paranoia.

"Dig faster!" Van Slyke suddenly yelled as if he'd awakened from a mini-trance.

David dug more quickly, but he did not give up on his attempt to get Van Slyke talking. He asked Van Slyke how he was feeling. He asked what was on his mind. But he got no response to either question. It was as if Van Slyke had become totally preoccupied. Even his face had gone blank.

"Are you hearing voices?" David asked, trying another approach. He swung the pick several more times. When Van Slyke still didn't answer, David looked over at him. His expression had changed from a blank look to one of surprise. His eyes narrowed, then his trembling became more apparent.

David stopped digging and studied Van Slyke. The change in his expression was striking. "What are the voices saying?" David asked.

"Nothing!" Van Slyke shouted.

"Are these voices like the ones you heard in the navy?" David asked.

Van Slyke's shoulders sagged. He looked at David with more than surprise. He was shocked.

"How did you know about the navy?" he asked. "And how did you know about the voices?"

David could detect paranoia in Van Slyke's voice and was encouraged. He was cracking the man's shell.

"I know a lot about you," David said. "I know what you have been doing. But I want to help you. I'm not like the others. That's why I'm here. I'm a doctor. I'm concerned about you."

Van Slyke didn't speak. He simply glared at David, and David continued.

"You look very upset," David said. "Are you upset about the patients?"

Van Slyke's breath went out of him as if he'd been punched. "What patients?" he demanded.

David swallowed again. His mouth was dry. He knew he was taking risks. He could hear Angela's warnings in the back of his mind. But he had no choice. He had to gamble.

"I'm talking about the patients that you've been helping to die," David said.

"They were going to die anyway," Van Slyke shouted.

David felt a shiver rush down his spine. So it had been Van Slyke.

"I didn't kill them," Van Slyke blurted out. "They killed them. They pushed the button, not me."

"What do you mean?" David asked.

"It was the radio waves," Van Slyke said.

David nodded and tried to smile compassionately despite his anxiety. It was clear to him he was now dealing with the hallucinations of a paranoid schizophrenic. "Are the radio waves telling you what to do?" David asked.

Van Slyke's expression changed again. Now he looked at David as if David were deranged. "Of course not," he said with scorn. But then the anger came back: "How did you know about the navy?"

"I told you, I know a lot about you," David said. "And I want to help you. That's why I'm here. But I can't help you until I know everything. I want to know who 'they' are. Do you mean the voices that you hear?"

"I thought you said you knew a lot about me," Van Slyke said.

"I do," David said. "But I don't know who is telling you to kill people or even how you are doing it. I think it's the voices that are telling you. Is that true?"

"Shut up and dig," Van Slyke said. With that, he aimed the gun just to David's left and pulled the trigger. The slug thumped into the root cellar door, which then creaked on its hinges.

David quickly resumed his digging. Van Slyke's mania terrified him. But after a few more shovelfuls, David took the risk of resuming talking. He wanted to regain his credibility by impressing Van Slyke with the amount of information he had.

"I know you are being paid for what you've been doing," David said. "I even know you've been putting money in banks in Albany and Boston. I just don't know who's been paying you. Who is it, Werner?"

Van Slyke responded by moaning. David looked up from his digging in time to see Van Slyke grimacing and holding his head with both hands. He was covering his ears as if shielding them from painful sounds.

"Are the voices getting louder?" David asked. Fearing that Van Slyke wouldn't hear him with his hands over his ears, David practically shouted his question.

Van Slyke nodded. His eyes began to dart wildly around the room as if he were looking for a way to escape. While Van Slyke was distracted David gripped the shovel, gauging the distance between himself and Van Slyke, wondering if he could hit him, and if he could, whether he could hit him hard enough to eliminate the threat of the gun.

But whatever chance there had been while Van Slyke had been momentarily preoccupied was soon gone. Van Slyke's panic lessened and his wandering eyes refocused on David.

"Who is it, who is speaking to you?" David asked, trying to keep up the pressure.

"It's the computers and the radiation, just like in the navy," Van Slyke yelled.

"But you're not in the navy," David said. "You are not on a submarine in the Pacific. You are in Bartlet, Vermont, in your own basement. There are no computers or radiation."

"How do you know so much?" Van Slyke demanded again. His fear was again changing to anger.

"I want to help you," David said. "I can tell you're upset and that you're suffering. You must feel guilt. I know you killed Dr. Hodges."

Van Slyke's mouth dropped open. David wondered if he had gone too far. He sensed that he had evoked a strong paranoia in Van Slyke. He only hoped Van Slyke's rage wouldn't be directed toward him as Angela feared. David knew he had to get the conversation back to whoever was paying Van Slyke. The question was how.

"Did they pay you to kill Dr. Hodges?" David asked.

Van Slyke laughed scornfully. "That shows how much you know," he said. "They didn't have anything to do with Hodges. I did it because Hodges had turned against me, saying I was attacking women in the hospital parking lot. But I wasn't. He said he would tell everybody I was doing it unless I left the hospital. But I showed him."

Van Slyke's face went blank again. Before David could ask him if he were hearing voices, Van Slyke shook his head. Then he behaved as if he were waking from a deep sleep. He rubbed his eyes, then stared at David as if surprised to find him standing before him with a shovel. But his confusion quickly changed to anger. Van Slyke raised his gun, aiming it directly at David's eyes.

"I told you to dig," he snarled.

David rushed to comply. Even then, he fully expected to be shot. When no shots followed, David agonized over what to do next. His current approach was not working. He was stressing Van Slyke, but not enough or perhaps not in the right ways.

"I've already talked to the person who is paying you," David said after a few minutes of frantic digging. "That's one of the reasons I know so much. He's told me everything, so it doesn't matter if you tell me anything or not."

"No!" Van Slyke shouted.

"Oh, yes," David said. "He also told me something you should know. He told me that if Phil Calhoun got suspicious, you'd have to take the blame for everything."

"How did you know about Phil Calhoun?" Van Slyke demanded. He began to shake again.

"I told you I know what's happening," David said. "The whole affair is about to destruct. As soon as your sponsor finds out about Phil Calhoun, it will be over. And he doesn't care about you, Van Slyke. He thinks you are nothing. But I care. I know how you are suffering. Let me help you. Don't let this person use you as a dupe. You are nothing to him. He wants you to be hurt. They want you to suffer."

"Shut up!" Van Slyke screamed.

"The person who is using you has told lots of people about you, Van Slyke. Not just me. And they have all had a good laugh over the fact that Van Slyke will be blamed for everything."

"Shut up!" Van Slyke screamed a second time. He lunged at David and rammed the barrel of the gun against David's forehead.

David froze as he peered at the gun cross-eyed. He let go of the shovel and it fell to the floor.

"Get back in the root cellar," Van Slyke screamed. He kept the tip of the gun pressed against David's skin.

David was terrified the gun would go off at any second. Van Slyke was in a state of frenzied agitation that bordered on absolute panic.

Van Slyke backed David into the root cellar. Only then did he withdraw the gun. Before David could reiterate his desire to help Van Slyke, the heavy wood door was slammed in his face and re-locked.

David could hear Van Slyke running through the basement, crashing into objects. He heard his heavy footfalls on the cellar steps. He heard the cellar door slam shut. Then the lights went out.

David stayed perfectly still, straining to hear. Very faintly he heard a distant car engine start, then quickly fade. Then there was only silence and the pounding of his own heart.

David stood motionless in the total darkness thinking about what he'd unleashed. Van Slyke had dashed out of the house in a state of acute manic psychosis. David had no idea where Van Slyke was headed or what he had in mind, but whatever it was it couldn't be good.

David felt tears well up in his eyes. He'd certainly managed to evoke the man's psychotic paranoia, but the result was not what he'd hoped. He'd wanted to befriend Van Slyke and get him to talk about his problems. David also wanted to free himself in the process. Instead David was still imprisoned and he'd released a madman into the town. David's only source of solace was that Angela and Nikki were safely in Amherst.

Struggling to control his emotions, David tried to think rationally about his predicament, wondering if there were any chance of escape. But as he thought of the solid stone walls encircling him he had an acute rush of claustrophobia.

Losing control, David began to sob as he vainly attacked the stout wooden door to the cellar. He hurdled his shoulder against it multiple times, crying for someone to let him out.

At length David managed to regain a modicum of self control. He stopped his self-destructive batterings against the unyielding door. Then he stopped crying. He thought about the blue Volvo and Calhoun's truck. They were his only hope.

With fear and resignation, David sank to a sitting position on the dirt floor to wait for Van Slyke's return.